The Curious Case of the Four-Legged Flatmate
by Marvel Lit Chick
Summary: In which two lost souls find each other on the most wonderful night of the year. A Christmas Sherlock story.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi, all! So I wanted to do a Christmas themed fanfic this year, but since my Marvel stuff is in progress and I couldn't find an organic way to fit it in (since it's currently summer with Tony and the gang), I decided to go a little off-book. I'm a HUGE fan of Sherlock, so I thought, "Gee, why don't I try and dive in there?" Well. Thinking maybe I shouldn't have. I've read so many good ones, and Sherlock is a challenging character to get just right.**

 **Hopefully this doesn't totally suck. This will be a little two-part ficlet, just for the Holidays. Please be gentle, this is my first fic in this fandom. Let me know how you like.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **And Happy Holidays!**

 **PS-Don't worry. I haven't forgotten about Darcy and Bucky. The next chapter for "Jet Plane" is just around the corner!**

 **Sarah :)**

 _The Curious Case of the Four-Legged Flatmate: A Sherlock Christmas Tale_

Milton wasn't particularly fond of life on the streets. While London was often pleasant in the summer, it was brutal in the winter, bitter cold, and damp enough to make your joints creak.

But Milton made due. He scrounged for food and often kept warm under and behind the rubbish bins, or against the lingering warmth of a can fire in the nastier parts of the neighborhood. Sometimes people on the street even stopped to give him little snacks and treats. Water could be a little trickier—even he knew the river that people called the Thames was, in a word, gross—and he sometimes found himself unbelievably thirsty.

But he was a survivor after all. He'd been born and bred to be such. It was in his nature.

It wasn't as though he was the only stray dog in the Wimbledon neighborhood.

When his owners—James and Cynthia—had moved and been unable to take him along, it had hurt to tell them goodbye at the shelter. He didn't understand why a simple dog couldn't go along, but it wasn't as though there was anything he could do about it. He couldn't exactly argue.

But then the shelter had burnt down.

He felt okay about it, now that it was over, and okay in the knowledge that all his fellow animals had gotten out unharmed. Hopefully they'd all found a way in the two winters since. Maybe the Burmese cat that had occupied the kennel across the way from him had already been taken in off the street by some well-meaning family, a little girl who dragged her father by the hand to show him the kitten, bedded down and shivering in an alley full of rubbish bins and empty boxes.

Or, at least, he hoped.

Fate, after all, hadn't been so kind to him. He had to assume that people noticed his remaining collar and tags—the shelter hadn't had time to change them out before their fire—and figured he belonged to someone and was simply out on walkabout.

He wasn't.

But home was a distant concept now. The streets were his home, all the people on them his owners, especially the kind few who paused to pet him.

He was just making his way back from the seedier part of the city, where he'd bedded down for the night. The houses here in his old, fancy neighborhood were all done up, now, for Christmas. Wreaths decorated doors, and holly hung, the lamps had bows in bright crimson red, nearly the same shade of his burnt umber coat.

He was very thankful for that coat in these cold temperatures. Clearly, this winter would be no different from the last in terms of weather.

The people on the streets paid him no mind as they hurried on their way to work, or the tube station, briefcases swinging, cabs trundling, high heels clacking hollowly on the pavement. One woman ahead pulled her fur coat—he would frown if he truly could—more tightly around her in the bitter chill and tugged her small daughter behind her, rushing like they were late.

"Come, Mags," she snapped impatiently.

The little girl looked up and saw him, and smiled.

It took all the control Milton had not to approach them. He'd learned not to do that the hard way, getting shoved, smacked, and screamed at one too many times, the people assuming he was just a mangy beast. But everything in him wanted to go to the little girl, press against her and feel her nice warmth, maybe be able to smell the warm sweetness of her, maybe some lingering smoke from a hearth fire still in her hair. She'd stroke his coat and giggle and for just a moment, it would feel like he was back home again, before his owner's daughter and grown and left.

And then they'd left him.

The two passed him by, the little girl pointing at him and waving on their way.

He looked away, his heart throbbing in old, now familiar homesickness.

A man in a suit was next, rushing along the street, his pea coat folded tightly shut and his collar up against the wind, his camera phone pressed to his ear.

"No, Shane, I told you I cancelled the meeting, remember? Yeah. No, it's fine. I'm going to stop for a coffee. You want anything? No? You sure? It's Speedy's, you know you love Speedy's. Alright, just one, got it. I know, I know, you're watching your figure for Amanda. Say no more."

He saw Milton and they watched each other for a moment, lingering on the pavement outside the bustling café.

"You should see this dog. No, he's just here on the street. Well, he's got tags. He must be someone's, right? Gosh, his coat is gorgeous—I mean, it needs a good washing up…"

He stepped up to the doors.

Milton's heart—stubborn and foolishly hopeful—sank.

"Just one, I know, I know, you bloomin' idiot."

He disappeared inside.

Milton paused for a moment on the street, watching the movement inside the little sandwich shop.

All those people.

Living their lives.

No room for him.

Of course, they had their own problems, he knew.

The people always assumed that dogs didn't know much, didn't catch on to things like self-awareness, just figured if it was an animal, it must not be intelligent or have deep-thinking moments.

But Milton did.

Huffing a sigh, he moved on.

But he'd gone not half a dozen steps when—

"Oi!"

He turned.

It was the man with the coat, and his phone was gone now.

"Yeah, you, mate! C'mere, boy!"

He glanced over his shoulder. No one behind him.

"Come on, mate! Got you something, fella!"

Heart leaping, he trotted back to the café front.

The man in the coat knelt down on the pavement and unwrapped a wax paper wrapper, smiling as he spoke to him. "Thought you might be hungry, boy. I got ya a treat. I mean, it ain't pot roast, and it sure ain't healthy, but I'd wager you need all the calories you can get, eh?"

He held out a rolled sweet. His nose remembered the cinnamon, and the sugar, the rolled shape.

A…cinnamon roll?

The man offered it. "Go on." He set it on the pavement. "That's for you, mate."

He leaned down and took a tentative bite. Yes, a cinnamon roll. He remembered these from his home.

"There you go."

He took a larger bite, determined not to inhale it, but savor it, slowly and with much enjoyment. Who knew when he'd get such a kind treat again.

Warmth spread through him.

"There now. Listen, I gotta get to work. You be safe and warm and then you go on home, eh? Bet someone's missing you, you hear?"

He looked up at him, cocking his head to show he'd heard and understood.

The man laughed, then reached up and patted Milton's head, standing again. "I'll see ya round, mate."

And he was gone, hurrying back up the street in his snug, warm-looking coat.

For ten minutes, Milton made that cinnamon roll last, sitting there, in front of the busy café, people rushing around him.

It was wonderful.

And it was still warm when he swallowed that last bite.

Then he stood, looked around at all the people, and continued on his way. There was an alley just down the way where he sometimes spent his days. It wasn't far.

He nearly bumped into another person behind him as he turned.

The man carefully skirted him, but paused in front of Speedy's, phone pressed to his ear, too.

Boy, the humans really loved their…was the word 'gadgets'? That seemed right.

" _No_ , Sherlock, I'm not staying so you can show me a _broken rubber band_. I just want to pick up that box and be on my way. I just got Gemma down for her nap and Mary's got a shift coming up. I need to get back."

Intrigued at the thought of any importance being attached to something as frivolous as a rubber band, Milton listened hard.

"I don't _care_ if it proves a case, Sherlock."

The man was…of average height for a human, slim, and blond, with it combed slickly back away from his face, though the wind was threatening its staying power. He had pale bruises under his eyes and looked tired. It was clear he'd dressed hastily, jeans, and a jumper under a thick corduroy coat, all in shades of gray and tan.

He mentally rolled his eyes, like humans sometimes did when they were impatient. "Sherlock, I _seriously_ can't this time. I'm just coming up for a minute."

And he went over to the flat entrance next door, where the black door was marked 221B, opened the door, and went up the stairs within.

Milton stood there a moment, rattling this information around in his brain.

Why would any human consider something like a rubber band—a toy, it seemed to Milton, a small tool designed to hold other human belongings together—important in any way?

And why was that man in such an impatient rush? Of course, he'd said that he had family to get home to—Gemma was likely a small child, so Mary a wife with work looming? So he couldn't stay. He'd learned that humans kept very busy schedules. They rarely left time for anything of enjoyment. But this man's impatience seemed long-tired and exasperated.

He decided to wait.

After all, he was curious.

And it wasn't as though he had anything else to do.

Time ticked by.

People continued to rush past.

Did they ever stop to consider things, he wondered?

Like, life, for instance?

Or even each other?

The way Milton remembered it, Christmas was a time to slow down and consider each other. He remembered long weekends in front of the fire, carols low on the radio, and his owners doing nothing for long periods of time, laughing, eating, drinking, and unwrapping curious little packages covered in paper and often containing things that brought each other a strangely large amount of glee. Sometimes there'd even been boxes for him, with delicious treats or toys that squeaked.

Togetherness.

He didn't have that, now, and he wondered why no one else noticed how wonderful it all was.

Of course, he'd learned in his five years that humans often forgot things like that, lost in all the hustle and bustle of their lives. Not necessarily because they didn't notice or appreciate things. But the human brain seemed very prone to overcrowding, distraction, and an overwhelming need to get things done at a rapid pace that seemed to outstrip everything else.

He wished, often, that he could speak, speak Human, so he could ask them how they could change that, or if they even wanted to.

The door opened again, and the blond man stepped out, followed by another fellow, this one taller and thinner, almost alarmingly so on both fronts.

"Sherlock, I've _got_ to go. _Really_. I'm _sorry_ , mate. Maybe tomorrow."

" _No_ , John, it's got to be _now_ , and I need another set of eyes," the second man said, pulling a long, thin hand through his dark brown curls, his face set in a look of determination and impatience.

The blond man—John—chuckled and shook his head, adjusting the small cardboard box in his arms. " _The Great Sherlock Holmes_ , admitting he needs something from someone else? You _must_ be desperate."

The dark-haired man—Sherlock, apparently—scoffed, and waved a hand. "Nonsense, I…I just…" He fumbled, visibly, looking away, the crease between his brows tightening. "It's…too quiet. I can't…" He huffed, as though the words were wrenching from him by their own painful will. He clenched his hands, fisting them. "I can't _think_ , in the quiet, John. My mind—it's too chaotic."

John, a bit more soberly, merely smiled. "You _thrive_ on chaos, Sherlock. You scatter it about wherever you go, in fact." He even gestured with his hands.

Milton found this all very entertaining. If nothing else, it was a distraction from not only the biting wind—the dark-haired man was in only a blue, thin dressing gown over what was clearly his pajamas—but also the craving for another cinnamon roll clawing through his belly.

"Forget it," Sherlock said suddenly, already stepping back into the doorway.

Now John looked guilty, stepping forward. "Well, Sherlock, don't be like that—"

"No, no, since my frustration is so funny, you go on home to Mary and the baby. Maybe you can teach her a new verse of _Round and Round the Garden_."

And he slammed the door, the knocker rattling.

For a moment, John stood there, face slack in surprise and irritation. He shook his head, glancing up and down the street. "For years, he acts like he doesn't feel a thing. Now he acts like I've abandoned him. Sod it." And he went on his way, back up the street, past Speedy's, around the corner, and was gone.

Milton wished there was a way to mediate. Clearly the two were having a case of poor, miscommunication—Sherlock seemed less than talented at voicing certain thoughts, if his subtle facial tics were any indication—and Milton was sure he could straighten it out.

If only he could speak Human.

He huffed out another sigh.

Just then the door opened again and he jumped.

Sherlock was back, leaning out the door.

Milton turned, glancing back up the street, expecting John to be returning.

But there was no one.

In fact, the streets were thinning of people, the morning rush eased as work was reached for many.

"No. You," the man said, his voice low and deep and quiet.

Milton turned back to find the man's silvery blue eyes hard on him. Milton.

"You might work."

Milton blinked.

"Wait here."

He disappeared.

The door slammed again.

So he waited. This was new.

A few moments later, the man named Sherlock was back, and out on the stoop, dressed smartly in black slacks and a button down in what used to be Cynthia's favorite color: violet. Milton could see the color under his pewter Belstaff and just peeking out from behind his blue scarf. Sherlock tightened it around his throat and started off down the block.

Milton blinked.

Sherlock paused, turned, and gave him a look. "Are you coming?" He didn't wait to see if Milton followed, but kept on up the street at a rapid pace, his long legs having a head start.

But Milton followed along after on his four legs, curious just what this day was becoming.

They walked for a while in silence, passing the odd person here and there, mostly older people out for their days of retirement. And they walked at quite the brisk pace, Milton's four legs the only thing making him a match for Sherlock's long-legged strides.

He was a singular man, Milton could already tell, his pale face held in a concentrated frown, his dark brown—nearly black—curls bouncing slightly in the wintry breeze.

The steam from a heating vent they passed on a shop front distracted Milton for a moment, the warmth setting his fur blowing before he realized Sherlock had paused. With a raised eyebrow, he waited while Milton caught up, shoulders hunched in embarrassment.

"I've mostly been pretending John's still round the flat," he suddenly said, starting in the middle as humans often did. "He moved out, see, got married, had a baby, few months back." He wrinkled his face in what appeared to be confusion. "I mean, not that I'm alone in there— _all_ the time." He shrugged, like he had to justify it for Milton. "But, you know, I need someone with me…on cases. And my usual replacement is… _busy_. On _Christmas_." He sighed, pulling leather gloves from his pocket and sliding them on, the right, then the left. "Got called in. Surprisingly, holidays can be…a busy time in the department.

Milton tried to gauge where they were going, but North Gower could be taking them anywhere.

"I'm not…in the habit of pouring my heart out, really. At all." Sherlock glanced down at him with a sardonic smirk, just a twitch of damning emotion. "I've been repeatedly informed that I don't have one. I took that as a compliment…once." He looked ahead again, that crease reappearing between his brows. "A long time ago." He reached up to tighten his scarf again, and Milton deduced that this curious Sherlock fellow was nervous. It was funny, he thought, what people said to the dog when they thought no one else would understand. Did they assume the dog would? Or did they just like the mental construct of a sounding board, someone or thing to use to hear their thoughts spoken aloud? After all, Milton understood every word.

Milton also got the feeling that Sherlock wasn't often nervous.

"Not that I'd ever tell John that. Still believes in heroes, I suppose. Though I think I finally convinced him _I'm_ not one of them." He shrugged his shoulders.

Milton made a mumble of agreement in his throat as he glanced up at the man.

Sherlock looked down at him. "You know, you remind me of someone. Someone from a long time ago."

They passed a street vendor selling wreaths and garlands of holly.

"Wreath for your front door, sir?" he asked, gesturing to his wares, a pine circle with a red bow, and Milton inhaled the wonderful, crisp, clean smell.

"No, thank you," Sherlock said with a gentle, surprisingly kind smile, sliding his hands into his pockets.

"That's a mighty impressive dog you got there," the vendor continued.

Milton allowed just a tiny bit of warmth to seep into his heart at the concept of having someone to belong to again.

Sherlock didn't bother to correct him.

The man raised a hand. "Happy Christmas!"

"Happy Christmas," Sherlock replied, his voice low and warm.

They continued onwards.

"John would be surprised I bothered to reply," Sherlock commented as they crossed the street. "People like to assume that I'm a heartless monster. Admittedly, I'm less than…warm with most people I meet. But…I'm hardly an 'Ice Man'—or a virgin, for that matter." Another sardonic smirk. "Did my share of experimenting at Uni. Just found it…not worth my time." Yet another shrug. "Well. Until now."

Milton suspected the slight color in his cheeks hadn't been there for some time now, not since his childhood at least.

"This isn't a complicated case. Elementary, really. Nothing exciting, not even a real mystery. If the man who hired me had bothered to look at the evidence in front of him, he'd have realized immediately that the disappearing money was being funneled into a drug ring by his head of floor management." He sighed. "Course, I'd rather not deal with his thugs in person, but since..." He looked down, his expression changing yet again. "Since the baby…I've been…alone for these dangerous bits." He turned a sudden and unexpected smile down at Milton. "Nice to have someone with me again." He paused then, and knelt down on the pavement, raising a hand to gently stroke it down Milton's head. "You really do remind me of someone."

Milton tilted his head back and shut his eyes, reveling in the warmth of his large hand as it folded around an ear.

"Been living rough for a while now, hm? Milton, is it?" His other hand sifted through his tags and they jangled softly in the cold mid-day air. "These are scuffed and worn round the edges. Shelter burned down not far from here, two summers ago." His fingers combed the shaggy tangles of his once-fine red coat. "Been down by the docks. You've not been properly fed for some time. The ash in your coat tells me quite a lot, Milton."

Milton raised his paw and set it on Sherlock's knee.

The man sighed. "You ready? Might be dangerous."

Milton let out a hoarse, gentle bark. He was a little rusty; he'd been largely silent for a long while.

Sherlock smiled again and stood, tugging at his collar to pull it up behind his head. "The game is on, then."

He stepped off the curb and took a left.


	2. Chapter 2

Summary: In which our Consulting Detective gains a Pathologist and a new partner.

Notes: Oh, wow. So the response to this has been much better than I expected! I'm so glad you all enjoyed the first half! It's a relief to hear that I'm not totally murdering the fandom. Anyway. Here's the second half. Hope you like it! This mystery was never supposed to be a clever focal point, BTW. This fic was supposed to primarily be about our two main characters, and their search-like everyone-to find a kindred soul. May you all have a wonderful holiday season (whichever way you celebrate) and may you always find warmth and acceptance when you need it most. Hope you like this. Merry Christmas. MLC PS-If you've got any ideas, shoot 'em my way. I'd love to hear from all of you!

Chapter 2:

((()))

They walked for quite a while. They walked long enough that Milton began to wonder where on earth they were going or if they were leaving London entirely.

People were still milling around, going to and fro. A harried young woman struggled up the street with too many market bags.

A little old lady shuffled along, walking her small dog.

A gaggle of young men walked along, laughing, packs over their shoulders, knit-caps pulled low over their ears as they made their way to a university class.

Finally, they stopped at a small, shabby walk-up flat. Sherlock bounded up the steps and lifted the knocker. "This is where it might get sticky, Milton," he said over his shoulder. "The floor manager my client hired has been using the space—and the profits of the company—to fund a drug operation. As far as I can tell, this is their base of operations."

Milton wasn't sure how a rubber band fit in to it all, but he wasn't about to argue.

They stood for a moment, watching the door, Milton glancing up the street, then down it.

They were alone. The snowy walk-ups and assorted front steps were covered in a thin layer of ice and snow, but were bereft of people.

Nothing happened.

He hit the knocker again, sliding his large, thin hands into the pockets of his sharp Belstaff. "See, I came across a small bit of evidence in the shipping and receiving warehouse, among them a rubber band. Under further investigation, I found traces of a chemical compound commonly formed during the purification of Cocaine." He shrugged casually. "Thought I'd start with the manager's address. A search of his property gave me this one. I deduce this must be the operations base." A wry smile. "Sloppy, really. Any good drugs dealer knows to make sure nothing is connected to anything else in the chain. Amateur."

Milton huffed out an agreeable chuckle.

Sherlock turned to look at him, a bemused smile crinkling his eyes.

Just then, there was a muffled bump from within the flat, just inside the door, followed by a startled shout.

They both went still.

Another thump. The door shook slightly, but did not open.

Sherlock jerked into action, pulling a small case from his pocket and bending to the lock. He slid a tiny blade into the crack of the door, preparing to pick it.

Milton, head cocked, took a step past him on the street, then another, wary. Ears pricking, he took the rest at a trot and came around the side of the flat to spy three men sliding out of a small, half-open window to the concrete alley below.

Well, that just wouldn't do.

He rooted himself to the spot and gave another little woof of alarm.

Sherlock straightened, turning to scowl over his shoulder, his face hard in concentration. But when he saw Milton, his entire countenance shifted, and he vaulted deftly over the side railing, landing easily on the pavement.

The three men starting yelling at each other, loudly, drawing attention to themselves as they argued.

"I _told_ you we needed to find new digs, mate!"

"And _I_ told _you_ not to leave your shit lyin' round, Arthur!"

Sherlock smirked, sliding his hands into the thick coat at Milton's side, running his long fingers through his fur.

It was all Milton could do not to coo in pleasure. It had been so long since someone really dug their hands in and petted him.

" _You're_ the one always leavin' your bloody sweet wrappers around, you prick!"

"I do sometimes miss the days when criminal opponents were a challenge," Sherlock sighed, his voice low. "They do seem few and far between." He detached himself from Milton's side and approached the small gang. "Gentlemen."

The three hooligans froze, staring at Sherlock with wide eyes.

He smiled coolly. "Would any of you happen to be Peter West?"

Two of the men—the ones they'd heard arguing so vociferously—stepped away from the third, looking apprehensive. One was rail thin, with a red beanie, a scraggly beard, and beady eyes. The other was a bit pudgy in contrast, with a watery gaze and a gray sweatshirt that had seen better days.

The third man narrowed his eyes. "You a cop?" He was clearly the leader, clearly this Peter that Sherlock spoke of. He was meatier than the other two, with broad shoulders, steely eyes, and a formidable stature in his leather jacket and cut jeans.

Sherlock waved a hand. "Oh, no. But you'll like _me_ even less."

"That's _Sherlock Holmes_ , Billy. That detective bloke what's all over the telly," said the skinny one, slapping the pudgy man on the shoulder.

"No, it's not," Billy countered impatiently.

The two men began arguing again with each other, a steady stream of inane chatter.

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes.

Milton grumbled.

"Yes, I know Milton. The criminal classes have never been particularly consistent," Sherlock coached him in a low voice.

"What you want, then, _Sherlock Holmes_?" Peter asked, sneering condescendingly. "You gonna arrest me with your _little dog_?" With a snap of his wrist, a gun appeared in his hand, held loosely at his waist, as though an afterthought, like he was confident with it. Milton—insulted at Peter's choice of words, _and_ his tone—wondered if he was a military man, what with the way he carried himself.

Sherlock sighed. "Should've brought the Browning," he muttered. "Too many dark aspirations, hm, Peter?" he said, more loudly. "It's what got you a Dishonorable Discharge."

Peter visibly bristled. "Yeah, well, how's a soldier s'pose to make his way in the world, eh? Soon as people hear ' _Post-Traumatic'_ , they run for the hills." He gestured with the gun, but Sherlock was calm and still.

"So, you thought you'd do a little side-business. You know, your boss was quite upset when I told him my suspicions. Thought you were a good fellow. Shame."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, the oaf can go and cry it off, for all I care. I got enough in the Cayman's the get me by." He smiled, but it was a cool smile. "So, maybe you outta move along, _Detective_." He finally raised the gun, approaching them at a steady pace.

"Oh, I see no reason to do that," Sherlock sighed.

Peter West was on them now, the gun level with Sherlock's belly, his two flunkies chuckling behind him as they hid in his shadow. "Oh, really? And why's that?"

Very calmly, Sherlock pulled his hand out of the right pocket of his coat, revealing his camera phone. "Well, I've got you all on tape, as it were. And look—the line's open." He smiled, turning it to show him the backlit screen. "Looks to be Scotland Yard."

" _Sherlock, what the bloody hell kind of trouble have you gotten into now, you pompous prick_?!" a voice said on the other end of the line, muffled and tinny in the tiny speaker.

Peter stared, face slack in surprise.

Sherlock smiled, putting the phone to his ear. "Yes, Detective Inspector. I believe I have the break to your open drugs case standing in front of me. He's got quite an impressive Beretta, if I do say so, myself. You might want to come on over." He read off their general location. "Quick as you can, thanks." He clicked his tongue, and hung up.

Peter snarled, pressing the gun to Sherlock's sternum. "You _bloody bastard_!"

Sherlock just smiled. "Think you might've lost your job, Mr. West."

"I'm gettin' out of 'ere!" the skinny flunky said, his voice high with panic. He slapped Billy's shoulder. "C'mon, mate!" They tore out of the alley and up the block, stumbling over each other on their way.

Peter, gun still trained carefully on Sherlock, took off in the same direction, moving more slowly. "You outta watch your back from now on, _Detective_!" he sneered as he stepped up to the alley entrance. "Might meet a sticky end one of these days!"

He took off up the block as well.

Sherlock sighed, looking down at Milton. "I suppose we ought to, hm?"

Milton harrumphed. He didn't much fancy running after armed men, but…needs must, he supposed.

"Sorry!" Sherlock said, already taking off after Peter at a rather impressive, fleet-footed run, his great coat streaming after him in the icy wind.

Milton followed, galloping off after him, completing their little chain, and he could see Peter about a block ahead now, turning to look over his shoulder at them. Raising his gun, he fired off a round.

Sherlock ducked, using his momentum and Peter's distraction to gain some distance on him.

Milton ran harder.

Peter fired off another shot.

Milton wondered how many rounds were in a typical Beretta magazine clip, eyeing up Sherlock's leather gloves as he came nearly even with the man.

Peter fired off another.

Sherlock ducked again, nearly gaining on him, the supplier just a few flat-footed steps ahead.

Milton barked, the icy wind in his long coat a welcome change, even though it was freezing cold.

Just as Sherlock reached out to grab him, though, Peter cut to the right into an alley.

Sherlock jerked to a step, overshooting the opening by a few feet.

Milton jerked to a halt beside him.

Breathless but calm, Sherlock gave him a smirk before ducking into the alley after their quarry.

Milton followed on his heels, his heart pounding, not only with their wild chase, but the danger of a lurking armed criminal. The alley was heavily shadowed and the clouds from their recent wintry weather were thick.

They crept into the alley at a snail's pace, Peter nowhere in sight.

"It's over, Peter," Sherlock called out, straightening his right leather glove. "You threw away your solid chance."

Peter didn't reply.

Milton was getting a bad feeling about this…

"You might as well have done with it."

Milton gazed around, sniffing as quietly as he could, his ears perked for any sound that might give away their opponent's position.

"The police are on their way."

There was a soft sound just to their right that Milton thought it might be a shuffling of feet, the grinding of gravel under a shoe. He cocked his head, listening hard.

And then he realized it in a heart-stopping moment.

Sherlock was standing right in the path of an impending bullet.

With a great heave of effort, Milton threw himself sideways into Sherlock, knocking him over. The detective sprawled in the open air.

There was a tremendous noise as Peter's gun went off just feet to their right, Milton's ears ringing with the explosion.

Sherlock tumbled, landing in a heap, striking his head on the brick wall as he went down, arms akimbo in an attempt at catching himself.

A searing pain tore through Milton's leg, igniting him in an instant, and he was thrown aside as well, sprawling beside Sherlock.

Peter booked it out of the alley, throwing the gun down behind a nearby dumpster.

" _Oi_!" a voice on the pavement shouted. "That's far enough!"

There were half a dozen men, then, at the alley's edge, uniformed police officers suddenly running around, guns drawn, faces tight as they shouted at Peter to lie down on the ground, arms out. Cars pulled up, doors slammed, more yelling ensued.

A middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and a long trench coat seemed to be the leader, and he tossed a pair of cuffs to one of the uniforms as he stepped into the alley proper. "Sherlock?!"

Sherlock stirred just barely, arms reaching out, his hand landing on Milton's side. He groaned in pain, his eyes not quite focusing. "Redbeard?" he murmured, his voice a drowsy mumble as he attempted to shake his vision clear. "Is that you, Redbeard?" He stared at Milton with sleepy eyes.

Milton whined, bending his right front leg, nearly blinded by the awful pain, unsure who Sherlock was talking about. He didn't know any Redbeard and he'd never been called that in his entire life.

The police officer appeared, his face drawn in surprise and worry. " _Sherlock_!" He called back to his men. "Get an ambulance over here!" He knelt over them, hands reaching out. "Sherlock, you _ponce_. Are you alright?"

Sherlock groaned again, attempting to sit up. "Redbeard? Where's Redbeard?"

The man frowned, shaking his head. "No, it's Greg. Are you alright, mate?"

Sherlock groaned, flopping back over again onto the damp, cold pavement.

"And who is this, eh?" Greg asked, studying Milton. "You suddenly got an Irish Setter for a companion?"

Milton shrank back.

Then Greg's eyes widened on him and he stood again. "Can we hurry with that ambulance, guys?!"

"For _God's_ sake, Lestrade! I'm _fine_."

Milton came around slowly, Sherlock's irritable complaining the first thing he heard.

"You _really_ hit your head, mate. Are you sure?"

"The paramedic has already been and gone. Called it a very mild concussion—and besides, I know how to diagnose myself, _Detective Inspector_."

There was a muffled huff. "Just looking out for you, Sherlock. You've been a little out of sorts since—"

" _Don't_." Sherlock's voice was icy defensiveness. "John's married, yes, but I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself, Lestrade. I don't require a _babysitter_."

There was a pause, and Milton blinked his eyes open. His leg was throbbing dully with pain, the space below his knee stinging vaguely. He wondered what he'd done to it. Had he twisted it on the way down after Sherlock?

Greg visibly hesitated. "That wasn't what I meant, Sherlock. It's just… _listen_ , mate, you walk around like you don't feel anything, and don't get me wrong. It's _your_ life. It's just…I dunno how long you can go on not needing anyone, you know?"

Greg swallowed, looking genuinely concerned, his face kind and rugged at the same time. Milton got the feeling this man was warm and friendly most of the time. He sighed and stood. "I'm glad you're okay, Sherlock, it's just…everyone needs someone. You know?" And with a long look, he turned and went on his way.

They were at the back of one of those trucks the humans called ambulances. The doors were open and Sherlock was sitting on the edge, his long legs dangling. Milton was on a red blanket behind him, his injured leg wrapped in white gauze, a bright stripe against his red coat, half his leg shaved.

"You were grazed by one of West's bullets," Sherlock suddenly spoke, twisting to look at him. "Nothing to worry about."

Milton struggled stubbornly to sit up, and glanced out of the back of the truck. People were milling around, officers, people in suits. There was yellow and there were a bunch of police cars with the doors ajar. The only one that was shut up tight had Peter West in the back seat. He was glaring out the window at them.

Sherlock smirked. "He's not going anywhere. Don't worry." He sighed out a breath, long and low. "Listen. Thanks."

Milton huffed, ducking his head. It was no big deal, really. Just doing his part and all that.

Sherlock's face changed, softening as he turned to look at him again. "You, uh…probably saved my life. Milton." He shuffled awkwardly. "I, um—"

He was interrupted by a harsh beeping noise and he jumped off the end of the truck. "Damn." He pulled his phone out of his pocket, shaking his head. "John."

John was speaking in such a rush and with such volume that Milton could hear him, his tinny voice through the phone line a tangle of words. Sherlock winced, holding the camera phone away from his ear, frowning and squinting one eye shut against the barrage.

This went on for nearly a minute.

Finally, slowly, Sherlock put the gadget tentatively back to his ear. "John… _John_ …" He sighed. "John, for _God's_ sake—" He stood there, staring at Milton, waiting.

Milton huffed.

Sherlock smirked. "Yes, _exactly_ ," he said to him, shaking his head. " _John_."

This time, there was quiet on the line.

"John, I'm _fine_. No need to worry."

The voice started again, more slowly.

Sighing, Sherlock wandered off, talking to John on his phone thing.

Leaving Milton alone. Again.

He sighed. Well, he had to figure that his new friend would be back. After all, he'd not finished telling Milton what he'd been about to say.

But time grew longer and longer.

And Sherlock didn't come back.

In fact, no one seemed to notice the injured dog in the truck. Everyone was distracted, busy humans, as usual.

Dropping his head, Milton studied his paws, the gauze on his leg. Well. The tape would get dirty wandering around, but he'd make due until it felt good enough to nibble off.

He dropped down out of the back of the truck, glancing back once to spy that warm, red blanket. Well. It had been nice while it lasted, his little midday adventure with this _Sherlock Holmes_ fellow.

He sighed, and continued on his way, out of the milling crowd, and down the street.

His heart grew heavy and the winter chill was icy in his coat again. It was going to be a long winter.

His leg hurt. Ugh. That was what he got for shoving a human around.

"And where do you think _you're_ going?" a deep voice suddenly called out to him.

He turned around.

Sherlock was standing just at the edge of the police tape, hands back in the pockets of his Belstaff, blue scarf back around his neck.

Milton stood there, staring at him.

Sherlock glanced back, once, then went over to the ambulance, nicked the red blanket, and then ducked under the tape, approaching him. "Just had to sign a statement. With Greg, that takes an eternity." He began walking down the street.

Milton blinked.

Sherlock turned again, eyeing him. "Well, are you coming?"

Just a little niggle, there, deep in him: hope.

Milton decided to swallow it back, just in case it was another false alarm, and followed Sherlock along the curb.

"My flat's not far."

And it wasn't, really. They'd run so far, Milton hadn't even noticed the distance they'd travelled trying to catch Peter West and his nasty gun. Just like that, they were back in front of the black door that read 221B. Sherlock unlocked it with his key and held the door for him.

Milton stood there, staring at the gaping square with trepidation. The air coming out was warm and the wooden staircase looked extremely inviting.

"Well?" Sherlock said. "In you go." And he smiled. Milton got the feeling Sherlock didn't smile often, and only when he truly meant it. "Long as you don't mind me playing the violin at all hours. Helps me think."

Milton, his heart warming even as it sped in his chest in growing relief and elation, gave a harrumph of approval.

Sherlock winked. "Well, then, in you go."

Milton hopped gingerly over the threshold, trying to be careful with his injured leg.

No sooner had Sherlock shut the door behind him than the door nearest them opened and a little old woman stood there, face awash in relief. "Oh, _Sherlock_! Your detective friend called! Said you'd had an _accident_ and I was _worried_!" She hurried over and reached up to cup Sherlock's face. "Are you alright, dear?"

She was small, absolutely dwarfed by Sherlock, with a tiny frame and mousy brown hair.

Sherlock smiled again, his eyes crinkling with affection. "Completely fine, Mrs. Hudson. I'll live."

She felt around on his head. "You've got quite the lump forming, Sherlock! Oh, you, running around all the time, chasing after bad men, all over. I don't know what you expect to happen! And with John off with Mary now—I'm still surprised that's gone as long as it has. I mean, the two of you— _really_ —"

"— _were never lovers_ , Mrs. Hudson," he interjected, cringing a little and rolling his eyes.

But Mrs. Hudson carried on, stepping around Milton. Milton shuffled back.

"It's just lucky it wasn't _serious_ , Sherlock. Don't need you getting shot again. Once was _more_ than enough—what with you carrying on, bleeding all over my carpet and such— _Oh_!" She'd turned and spotted Milton.

"Before you say—" Sherlock started.

"Sherlock, you _know_ how I feel about animals in the flat," she said, her face set as she studied Milton.

He sat heavily down and cocked his head, studying her and attempting to look cute.

She stared at him, her mouth softening. "He's got tags."

Sherlock sighed. "Stray. And he saved my life," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, in what Milton was quickly determining to be Sherlock's way most of the time.

Her head snapped around and she looked at him. Then her shoulders slumped. "Oh, _alright_ then." She smiled. "He is awfully cute." She stuck out her finger. "But _no messes_ , Sherlock! I already look after you half the time—"

" _Do not_!" Sherlock argued, indignant. "I'm not a _child_ , Mrs. Hudson."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, _fine_. But you better go upstairs and get yourself cleaned up. And make sure you haven't got your weird _bits_ lying about! I don't want to have reheat my casserole in a microwave that recently had an assortment of thumbs in it again!"

" _Of course, Mrs. Hudson_ ," Sherlock drawled, clearly tired of saying something he'd said countless times before. He started up the stairs.

"Oh, and I don't know if John stopped by for some of his boxes, but I heard the door shut and some moving about. Make sure he gets them all. He keeps forgetting things, and Mary's going to get cross with him." She shut the door.

Sherlock paused on the landing, frowning. "The door?" he said aloud, peering up at the closed entrance to B. An eyebrow went up. He glanced down at Milton and shrugged. "Might as well." He continued up the stairs, pushing the door wide.

Milton followed him, nearly running into his legs as Sherlock stopped in the open doorway, his hand frozen on the knob. He stared into the room, his face open in surprise.

Milton squirmed, trying to see past him into the flat.

There was a pretty girl standing in what looked to be the kitchen. She was small in stature, and very thin. Her mousy brown hair was straight and long, and she'd pulled it back into a high, sleek pony with a red ribbon. She wore a crimson dress of medium length that Milton thought accentuated her subtle curves.

" _Molly_ ," was all Sherlock said, his voice low and uncharacteristically soft.

Molly looked up, showing Milton her heart-shaped face, button nose, and large brown eyes. "Sherlock," she greeted back, a gentle smile playing at her mouth.

"What are you…?" Sherlock began, voice a little more stable. Of course, that didn't help him get his question out any better, as he petered out at the end without finishing. Milton wanted to roll his own eyes. _Humans_.

Molly's smile widened. "Anderson came in. Since they gave him his job back, he's been getting all the bottom barrel shifts and so I didn't have to stay late. Where've you been? "

Sherlock just stood there for a moment, staring at her, the expression on his face entirely different from any Milton had seen him wear that whole day. "I…"

"I know John wasn't with you. I spoke to Mary just a mo ago. You finish a case?"

Milton could think of no other word for her but 'sweet'. She was sweet. And warm. Pretty, but subtly so, the sort of girl that humans walked by without noticing until she did something they didn't know they could appreciate.

Milton liked her immediately.

Sherlock swallowed. "Um. Yes. All finished."

Just then, she looked down, and gasped as her eyes found Milton. " _Oh_! And you brought someone home with you!" She smiled, abandoning her mixing bowl and crossing the room, showing off her red high heels and golden ankle bracelet. She knelt in front of Milton and reached out to stroke his head. "Oh, my _God_ , is he _sweet_!" She dug her thumbs into his forehead.

This time, Milton hummed his approval. _Oh, that felt good_. Maybe, if he tilted his head, she'd get that _spot between his eyes_ …

"Um. Yes. I…" Sherlock continued to fumble awkwardly, even as he peeled off his Belstaff and scarf and tossed them over a well-worn sofa. "I…"

He looked down at Milton.

Milton looked up at him.

They shared a long look, and Milton got the feeling that Sherlock was thinking of what Greg, the detective, had said; that everyone needed someone. "I'm…glad you're here…" he said, very slowly, as though feeling the words out. "…Molly."

She straightened, smiling again, even more broadly than before. "Good. Me too. I wasn't sure you'd appreciate me showing up. I mean, we didn't make plans because I had to work…" Her hand lingered on Milton's head, and he crossed his eyes, studying her tiny hands, her delicate fingers, a little calloused at the end by whatever she did all day. She smelled like lilies. And bakery. And…just there, way down at the bottom…was that the aftershave he'd smelled on Sherlock earlier?

Sherlock, not quite looking her in the eye, nodded. "No, right, it's fine. I…I was…prepared to spend Christmas…alone."

Milton got the feeling that idea had bothered Sherlock more than he'd ever admit.

Molly's hand slipped off Milton's head as she turned to face Sherlock fully, trailing instead up the detective's arm, smoothing the sleeve of his violet dress shirt. "Well, you don't have to now." She leaned in, face upturned, offering herself. "You've got me: your pathologist."

Sherlock leaned down, closing the distance, to press his mouth to hers in a sweet, lingering kiss, his eyes drifting shut and his face softening, the hard, defensive edges melting to reveal an affectionate under-layer that Milton wasn't sure he'd seen until that second.

It lasted a long moment, tapering off with little pecks as a smile grew on Sherlock's face, his eyes crinkling again. "Indeed. Good to have you, Dr. Hooper."

She laughed softly, pulling back. "Mr. Holmes." She reached up to undo the top button of his shirt. "Have you mentioned this to John yet?"

He slid his arms around her tiny waist and pulled her closer. "And shock him that the only consulting detective in the world _isn't_ , in fact, a _virgin_?" He scoffed. "Best not to startle him right now, Molly. He needs his sleep, after all."

Molly laughed, a soft tinkling sound. "True." She pressed her mouth to Sherlock's throat, her hands trailing under his collar. "Do you want some wine? I just opened a merlot."

Sherlock pressed his lips to the very top of her head. "Mm."

She pulled away and went back to the kitchen, pulling out wine glasses and tugging the cork out of a bottle. "So, how precisely, did you find that lump on your head? Do I need to hire someone to follow you round—is that what the dog's for?"

Sherlock chuckled, following her into the kitchen and brushing the tail of her hair off her shoulder. "Long story. I'll tell you later. Is the dog alright?" His gaze flicked to Milton and they shared a look again.

Molly smiled. "Sherlock, if you want the dog, the dog stays. And anyway, it's not _my_ flat. I've got Toby at home."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes tightening again. "It could be."

Molly continued stirring whatever was in her bowl. Milton carefully approached and peered up. Cereal. It was different kinds of cereal, the grainy things that humans ate with milk from the carton in the fridge, all mixed up and smelling salty wonderful. "It could what?"

Sherlock set his wine glass down on the counter. "Could be your flat."

Molly stopped stirring, staring at Sherlock, her large eyes even wider in surprise. " _My_ flat?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Yes, that is what I said Molly. Are you going to repeat everything I say? If so, it could end up being a rather trying night, and I'd hoped to enjoy more romantic pursuits later—after Mrs. Hudson's gone, of course."

Molly stood there, mouth agape. " _Live here_?"

Again, with the shrug, and Sherlock crossed the room to pick up his aforementioned violin. "Well, there is a vacancy. And since we've been intimate for months, now, I suppose I ought to do right by you. What sort of man would I be otherwise?"

Molly, seemingly at least partially recovered, snorted. "You'd be Sherlock Holmes."

With a wry smirk, he set the instrument to his chin and began playing, a soft tune that made Milton want to collapse across the floor at his feet and sleep. "So that's a ' _yes'_ , then?"

Molly, laughing and blushing, nodded. "That's a 'yes', Sherlock." Surprisingly, she turned to Milton. "How do you feel about cats?" she asked, her head cocked to observe him.

Yielding to temptation, Milton began across the room toward Sherlock's couch. He gave an agreeable harrumph as he sat at his feet.

Molly giggled.

"That's a _yes_ , also, as far as I can gather," Sherlock commented, setting his violin down again and settling on the couch.

She smiled. "Well, _perfect_. Then tomorrow, you'll need fresh tags and a good, warm bath, yes? I'll stop off at Debenham's after my shift and get you a new bed to go with your red blanket, as well as some food, some bowls, and you'll need a new stuffed toy, yes?"

"His name's Milton, by the way."

Molly smiled, patting his head. "Milton. _Of course_."

Milton attempted to smile back, happiness seeping into him.

She retrieved her own glass of wine and crossed to him, skirting Milton to sit at his side, curling against his shoulder. "C'mon, boy!"

Milton hopped up beside her and lay down, his heart content now in the warmth of inclusion.

 _Togetherness_.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around her.

She held up her glass. "Well, then, Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes."

They clanked their glasses together in a toast. "Happy Christmas, Dr. Hooper."

It was a wonderful evening.

The little old lady from below, Mrs. Hudson, came up not too long after, with food and dessert, and the three of them had a little Christmas party.

Molly gave him small handfuls of party mix and Mrs. Hudson snuck him a chunk of pot roast, after all.

The Christmas tree was filled with pretty twinkling lights, the fireplace was smoky and warm, and Milton's belly was finally full.

People kept patting his head and it was so cozy, he could barely keep his eyes open.

In a matter of hours, he'd regained a family. It was funny, Milton thought, how things happened.

Later, after Molly and Sherlock had gone to bed and Molly's giggling laughter had faded, after Mrs. Hudson's records had finished playing, and the lights were shut off, he lay on his red blanket in the lingering warmth of the fire, looking up at the Christmas lights.

He could like it here; he could like it very, very much.

How did the song go—the one that the human's played on their music box things? He'd come home for Christmas.

And he had the feeling it was just the start of something spectacular.

After all, his eccentric new owner was the World's Only Consulting Detective. That sounded like it had the potential to be endlessly entertaining.

As long as the cat played by the rules.


End file.
